


the crime of making a mistake

by plantyourtreeswithme



Series: murder can be an art, too [2]
Category: Rope (1948)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-24 06:07:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12006660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantyourtreeswithme/pseuds/plantyourtreeswithme
Summary: Who'd have thought that a beautiful, gentle soul like that could just as easily choke the life out of a fellow human being?





	the crime of making a mistake

**Author's Note:**

> Filling up the Brandon/Phillip tag one fic at a time. There aren't nearly enough written from Brandon's POV...
> 
> Another canon divergence AU! This one takes place post-Connecticut and doesn't really focus on Brandon's jealousy of Phillip and David as much as [perpetual motion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11964225) did.

The first thing he noticed about Phillip was how strong he was.

You never would've guessed it if you'd heard him play - he approached piano with the astoundingly gentle touch of an artist. When Brandon first walked past the music room and caught a glimpse of the student standing at the keys, he could hardly believe his ears; he'd thought for sure that one of the professional coaches had been playing, not Phillip Morgan.

He'd seen him before: they shared a few classes together, and sometimes, Brandon spotted him doing laps around the school grounds with a few other boys. He was incredibly fit for a sixteen year old, and could often be found in the gymnasium, as well, lifting weights and stretching and glowing like a god.

Brandon was undeniably attracted to him from the beginning. Who wouldn't be? Phillip was gifted and intelligent and kind and mild and toned and  _strong_ , and there was also something captivating about him that Brandon couldn't place.

Once they become actual friends ("You're in my science class, aren't you?" Brandon asked him one day in the library. "What was the homework again?"), they spent most of their free time in one of the practice rooms. Phillip played the same phrases over and over again while Brandon absorbed himself in his calculus homework and hummed along. Listening to Phillip was simply sublime; occasionally, he would stop and laugh awkwardly when he "made a mistake," and Brandon would chide him for being too harsh on himself. Music incarnate ran through his veins, pouring from his fingers to the keys and echoing back in rivulets of melodies and ornaments. It was an honor to even be in the same room as him, much less witness him perform.

The difference between the way Phillip played and the way he strangled was like night and day; Brandon learned that in their twelfth year together, when he had finally killed David for him. Well, he specifically said it was  _with_ him, but they both knew the truth. He wanted David out of the picture completely - didn't need to hear Phillip's glowing praise of him anymore, or read about one of his accomplishments in the paper, or be reminded that the Harvard kid would always,  _always_ be better than him.

David had gotten Janet, and he had nearly gotten Phillip, too, back when they were just students. If Brandon hadn't come along and whisked him away, things would've gone much differently. Perhaps David would still be alive, and Phillip wouldn't be haunted by gruesome, chilling nightmares, and Janet would stop calling.

Janet Walker - her name left a bad taste in Brandon's mouth. It was perfectly alright that she'd left him for Kenneth, of course (she'd only ever been a beard, after all), but whenever they crossed paths after the night of the party, he had the most peculiar feeling that she knew what they'd done. She was going steady with Kenneth again now, taking him on walks through Central Park like a dog, and asking him to tea parties as a young girl invites her stuffed animals to playdates, and putting up with him for the sake of mere companionship. At some point, though, Kenneth - the poor bastard - would most likely expect her to put out, and it would end all over again. But Janet wouldn't have anyone to fall back on: there would be no David to take her out and discuss her petty feelings with, no Brandon for her to shove half-jokes and conversation starters at. She would be alone - while her lover's corpse rotted and Brandon whiled away his mornings and noons and evenings with none other than Phillip Morgan.

The fact that she wasn't even aware of the two of them pained Brandon to no end. It was almost as if she actually expected him to enjoy her company and buy her lavish gifts or take her shopping for a new dress every Saturday. Phillip was just that awkward, flighty musician who hung around Brandon like a lost puppy and still bunked with him, even ten years after they had first shared a bedroom.

It wasn't as if Brandon wanted her to know, of course; he just wished she'd get a grip and realize that he wasn't still hung up over her (never had been in the first place). Sometimes, though, he wished someone would discover him just to prove his cleverness - just to see how willing he was to take risks; to live life not on the edge, but teetering over the brink.

"Always itching to get caught, aren't you, Brandon?" Phillip asked him once as they made love in broad daylight - as Brandon moved and panted above him, his knees digging into the couch cushions and the sun streaming through the windows.

"You don't think I deserve a little recognition?" Brandon simpered in that tone of voice that  _did things_ to Phillip.

"Mmm..."

"We're on the tenth floor, anyway," he continued, dipping down to kiss the crook of the other man's neck and eliciting a small moan from him in return. "Who's going to see us?"

"Birds, probably," came the distracted, stammered reply, and then there was a short intake of air and an added, "Bran-  _fuck_ , Brandon, what time is it?"

And when they realized Mrs. Wilson was bound to come through the door any second, Brandon finally rolled off, helped Phillip find his clothes, and managed to be sitting in an armchair with his legs crossed by eleven o'clock sharp - which was exactly when the housemaid's key turned in the lock and she came bustling inside.

He couldn't deny that the thrill of being backed into a corner and clawing his way out was exhilarating, and he supposed that would get him killed someday.

 

* * *

 

"Oh, oh, oh!" Phillip exclaimed, sliding out of the booth and hurrying to the jukebox. He deliberated for a few moments before choosing what he evidently thought was the perfect song. Brandon started as the opening of "As Time Goes By" suddenly blared through the diner, reverberating in the floor beneath his feet. Phillip made his way back over to their table with a large grin on his face, and Brandon couldn't help but smile back.

"You always have loved this song," he remarked as his companion sat down again opposite him.

 _"A kiss is still a kiss,"_ Phillip quoted, tapping his foot along with the rhythm and beaming. "No matter who kisses who."

Brandon wanted to laugh at his naiveté, but couldn't. All he did was say, "Finish eating," as neutrally as he could, and then they walked home together, the lights of the city blaring and their sharp, fitted suits buttoned tight and the line  _"woman needs man, and man must have his mate"_ ringing in Brandon's ears.

 

* * *

 

The thing about New York was that it was deathly silent in the winter.

No one wanted to be out and about in the cold, and certainly not when the buildings were coated with snow and cars couldn't even be driven out of the garages lest their tires slip on the ice. Phillip and Brandon stayed inside, too, warmed by the fireplace and a bit of whiskey and Phillip's rendition of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."

"Did you know this song used to be a lot more depressing?" he quipped as he reached with his foot for the damper pedal. "Judy Garland made them change it for the movie. The composer talked about it in a magazine or something last year."

"Judy Garland's a  _darling_ ," Brandon babbled, a bit more drunkenly than he would've liked. "Just so lovely. I adored her in that one we saw last week."

"Mmm. Do you want me to sing it?"

"Sing... what?"

"The original version."

"Oh," he said, taking another sip of his drink. "Fine, go ahead."

 

_"Have yourself a merry little Christmas_

_It may be your last_

_Next year, we may all be living in the past_

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas_

_Pop that champagne cork_

_Next year, we may all be living in New York_

_No good times like the olden days_

_Happy golden days -"_

 

"Stop it," Brandon said much too loudly, "stop, Phillip. Don't sing that anymore, please."

"At least let me finish," said Phillip, his hands hovering calmly over the piano. Brandon's drunken mind unwittingly remembered a strange day in prep school when his friend had gotten ridiculously upset about a tune someone had been humming in the library and then left hanging in the air, unresolved and unfinished.

 

_"No good times like the olden days_

_Happy golden days of yore_

_Faithful friends who were dear to us_

_Will be near to us no more..."_

 

Phillip was ordinarily divine, but right now, Brandon wanted to snap the fall board down on his fingers and break them all just to keep him from ever playing again.

Instead, he rationally set his drink down, calmly rose from his chair, and kissed Phillip to make him shut up.

 

* * *

 

 _"We agreed that there was only one crime we could commit - that of making a mistake,"_ he had told Phillip some months before as they were setting up for the evening. And neither of them had done anything wrong - everything had gone as smoothly as could be, and by the next day, they'd disposed of David's body in Connecticut and put the whole issue to bed (literally).

Brandon, however, had made one fatal mistake quite some time ago: he had fallen in love with his partner in crime.

 

* * *

 

"We should have another get-together," Brandon said a few days before New Years'. They had just gotten back from a movie (something awful and not very memorable and much too colorful for Brandon's taste), and now there was nothing to do but lie on the bed and watch Phillip get ready in the adjacent bathroom. For some reason (he suspected it was the wetness of Phillip's post-shower skin), he was very starkly reminded of the night they had kissed for the first time - when Phillip had come back from a walk in the rain with David with his hair plastered to his forehead and his uniform sopping and his face somewhat red.

"You must be freezing," noted Brandon, springing up from his desk, grabbing a blanket, and wrapping it around his roommate's shoulders. "Out in the rain in the middle of October? You'll catch cold for sure, Phillip."

"No, I'm certain I'll be fine," Phillip had said, despite the fact that he was shivering.

"Not if I don't bundle you up properly," Brandon replied, and when his friend laughed, he added, "What?" and prodded at Phillip's exposed, goosebump-covered arm.

"You're just being very nice, Brandon."

"And why does that surprise you?"

"Because..."

His gaze had settled on Brandon's mouth, so of course, he had to lean forward and indulge him. Phillip's lips were sweet, like honeysuckle, and as the kiss deepened, Brandon couldn't help but think, _This must be what music tastes like._

Back then, the pianist had been soft and serene and somewhat exquisite; it was really no wonder that Brandon had been so drawn to him. But murder had hardened Phillip Morgan - it'd given him an edge that struck Brandon like a brick wall every time he encountered it, which was often.

Now was one of those times. Phillip looked over at him - running a hand through his hair and turning the sink off at the same time - and said, "No, we shouldn't."

"Why not? The last one went so splendidly."

Phillip's voice hummed with laughter. "Are you drunk?" He turned the bathroom light off and made his way across the room, buttoning his pajamas as he went. "You think that party was a success? Rupert nearly caught us."

"Well, we took care of the hat, didn't we?" Brandon said weakly. Suddenly, he very much wanted to end the conversation.

"Rupert's not stupid, although you might still think so," Phillip continued as he slid into bed next to him. "I mean, he's one of the privileged men, isn't he? He's the one who introduced us to the concept of superiority, and he's certainly entitled to kill anyone he likes, so it only makes sense that he would figure it out eventually."

"He didn't, though."

"Yes, he did. I could see it in his eyes every time he came over to question me - or were you too busy trying to get caught by the Kentleys to notice?"

Brandon closed his eyes. He was very, very cold, despite the two blankets layered on top of him.

"Hey," Phillip said, remorse tinging his voice. "Come here, I'm sorry."

Reluctantly, Brandon let his lover embrace him beneath the covers, his hands instilling warmth back into his veins - roaming over his body in the same way that they rolled over the ivory teeth of the piano, coaxing the notes out with the refined skill of a master.

Musicians bent instruments to their will in the very manner that Brandon had persuaded Phillip to help him murder David. Thinking about it sickened him, but the thought of Phillip manipulating him in the exact same way made him want to die. It was Brandon's fault, of course; he'd been the one to twist and contort his once-innocent friend into this cruel, conniving pariah. He had made it so that Phillip no longer trusted nor loved him, choosing instead to merely tolerate his existence in their apartment - in New York - in life.

"Why are you so upset?" Phillip asked after a while, a bit of harshness creeping back into his tone.

When Brandon turned to look at him, he saw a wide-eyed, frightened schoolboy who had just been kissed for the first time and wasn't quite sure what'd just happened.

Who'd have thought that such a beautiful, gentle soul like that could just as easily choke the life out of a fellow human being?

**Author's Note:**

> God, I love these two.
> 
> I wrote the version of "As Time Goes By" as being [the Casablanca recording](https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=5&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwiGmJnLg6HWAhXor1QKHY0SDgIQtwIISjAE&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3Dd22CiKMPpaY&usg=AFQjCNE2rzLWbBOw3dEhxp_iBE4neKbB8A) \- and I found the original lyrics for "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Have_Yourself_a_Merry_Little_Christmas)!
> 
> If you enjoyed reading this, please tell me what you think by leaving a comment or kudos!


End file.
